


Knights Don't Bleed

by lunartaurus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Needles, One Shot, the needles and blood aren't explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunartaurus/pseuds/lunartaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medievalstuck AraKat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knights Don't Bleed

"Stabbed again." 

Your voice is a murmur and his was a gruff one that managed to carry even when he was trying to be quiet, but this time there was no response out of him. With a defiant jut of the chin, his neck then rolled in unison with his eyes, and the metal guard on his helmet shut with a strategic  _clink!_  Now as you study him again, running a damp cloth over your fingers, nearly numb from the cold, all that was visible of his face were the two eyes, rubies glinting even in the dim light.

You don't think he realized that. 

Karkat Vantas--you know his name, you've heard others call him--holds a gauntlet to his side, the place where the armor separated, a small spot of flesh that was vulnerable to the elements and--well, anyone quick with a blade in close combat. A sigh escapes your lips and at the sound he readjusts himself uncomfortably; you can see the twitch of his eyes and a soft noise from within the helmet, and his glove tightens again where blood dribbles out of him. 

"You're getting blood on the bench." 

A scoff.   
"Well excuse me princess. What will you chamber maids ever do without a clean fucking bench? God, that would be a nightmare wouldn't it. Not the bench! No ANYTHING BUT THE BENCH!" The next scoff turns into a full cough, and his head bows when his entire body shakes with it. 

"This is the second stab wound in a week's span."

His eyes immediately avert, but you keep your own level. It's easy to tell it unnerves him. 

"That color isn't natural." 

Oh, another nerve struck. It seems he's forgotten that this isn't a battleground, with clashing swords and much too much panic over the survival aspect than the color of a particular knight's eyes. He stands, but the pain is visible in his stagger to the door. With a few swift steps, you catch his shoulder to stop him. The hand covering the wound now goes to the sheath of his weapon, holds there. 

Karkat had always come down, down to the cold where the dead were kept, in the quiet. You're positive he did not notice you the first few times he had frantically bandaged himself in a dark corner, flinching at the smallest of noises. You had only revealed yourself this time out of curiosity. 

Only when his hand moves away from his weapon do you turn him. His eyes burned red, a burn of scorn, a burn of hate, but mostly of hardship and--fear. Not that it was that difficult to riddle out; his boot scuffs against the floor as he tries to move back, but you steady his shoulders with both hands, noticing only now the height difference--your eyes were only level with his chin. 

Let go.  
He does not move.    
And now it's suspicion that spills across the silence, scathes the cobbled floor. 

"Let me see the wound."  
"No."    
"Let me see it."  
"My answer's not going to change within five seconds of saying it, nag." 

Was this...banter? 

When you grab his hand you feel his fingers curl against yours, and then retract, as if the motion was unfamiliar to him. Karkat lets you drag him to the bench and set him down again, but his swatting starts when you peel off the first layer of metal guarding his skin, interspersed with quiet muttering.

In response, your voice lowers, too, and by now you feel like you're coaxing an animal into trusting you. Might as well be. 

A first aid kit is produced, "This is going to sting." 

"Sting." 

You nod. "Sting."

"Then don't do it." 

You pull up the automail and make him hold it out of your way as you examine the cut, but not before noticing multiple scars along his midsection. When you lay your hand against the skin he jolts again, but you recoil almost immediately as well. Was it healthy for him to be that warm? Was it his blood? 

"Sting," you hold up a cotton wad with antiseptic. Red eyes narrow at you. With your free hand you catch the young troll off guard and tear away his helmet, letting it clatter to the floor. 

You swiftly press the swab to his wound at the same moment you lean over and press your lips to his cheek, and he goes absolutely still, the only difference is in the warmth of his face, fading at first and then blossoming feverish color. 

His voice would be the one to break the silence:   
"...Are you done?"

"You'll need stitches."  

An exasperated sigh, not out of tension, but relief. 

You situate yourself beside him now with your supplies poised in your lap, and he doesn't speak another word. A smile touches your lips. For the next while you work in the quiet, and Karkat does little but rub at the color in his cheeks. 

You think you might have stolen his first kiss.   
Oops?  


End file.
